AN

hour later, we were good to go. Chaviva high-fived me. “We’re a good team,” she trilled.

It was true, we were. Chaviva was the creative one — kind of floaty, but also brilliant, full of ideas, and the type who could talk to anyone, which was great when we had donors come visit the office. I was the details one, the grounded one, the numbers one. Between us, we had a good thing going. And we were also friends, not just coworkers.

“I have to leave early, Shauli and Sari are both home sick,” I told Chaviva at lunchtime. “Sorry to leave you with all of this madness. I’ll try log in from home, but….”

“Hello? Why are you sorry, your kids are sick!” Chaviva said. “Don’t feel bad at all! I’m fine here. And tell me what I can bring you for Shabbos!”

For Shabbos? She was too cute. That was so Chaviva, she was always offering to do something, to help out, bringing me soup when I was under the weather, delivering cookies after I’d pulled an all-nighter making Shabbos.

“No, for real, tell me what you need or else I’m bringing what I think. It may as well be something you want.”

I laughed. “Right now, I have nothing for Shabbos, so whatever you think works.”

“Great. Probably a fruit crisp.”

“You really don’t have to.”

She smiled beatifically. “I want to.”

I was still smiling when I left the office; Chaviva’s positive energy just did that to me.

We’d been working together for almost three years now and we’d hit it off pretty much from the get-go. We were at similar-ish stages — I’d just sent my oldest to seminary this year, she was making her first bar mitzvah.

I made a mental note to check in with her how it was going. She’d talked so much about it the past few months, but for some reason, I’d been hearing less recently. Maybe it was just the pre-Purim rush?

“H

ow are the bar mitzvah preps coming along?” I asked Chaviva while we were stuffing envelopes the next week. Most communications these days were done by email, but for the Purim appeal, we went the old-fashioned route, envelopes in mailboxes and all that.

I wasn’t sure if I was imagining the small shadow that seemed to cross her face, or the slight pause before she answered.

“Amazing,” she said, finally. “I found dresses for the girls, finally. And even matching to mine, can you believe it? Let me show you pictures.”

I ooh’ed and aah’ed over the pictures of the adorable mint green dresses.

“And there’s this whole question about the kiddush — should we do it the Shabbos before, because the seudah is on a Sunday night, or wait and do it after he leins even though our family won’t be there…. We still haven’t decided, which is a bit ridiculous, because we need to book the shul.”

“Wow, it’s a lot.” I shook my head. My older son was 16, my younger one was seven. I had time before I was in the bar mitzvah parshah again.

“Yeah.” Chaviva forces a laugh. “A lot of money, too.”

M

oney.

We were good friends, it was true, but I never quite knew where Chaviva stood when it came to finances. We didn’t talk about it much. I knew that they weren’t exactly wealthy, and she didn’t have much family support to speak of. But she always seemed to dress nicely, and she dressed her kids well, too. We once shopped some of the end-of-season sales together, and while she obviously liked a good bargain, she also chose some of the new season stock for her children — and it wasn’t the cheapest store.

No, she’d never seemed to be struggling terribly for money — and hey, hadn’t she even gone away to a Pesach program last year? Granted, not one of those insane ones with Fried and Shwekey and flights to the Caribbean or whatever. But it had sounded like a nice one, with a day camp and entertainment and high-end catering.

Making Pesach is almost as expensive, she’d laughed at the time, a little uncomfortable. I could understand why — she didn’t want to seem like a spendthrift or like she had so much money to splash around — but hey, it wasn’t my business what she did with her money. I was happy for her, that was it. I personally loved making Pesach — there was nothing like a family Seder — but everyone did what worked for them, right?

On the other hand, she often commented about how expensive things were. The other day, she’d been downloading egg-free recipes while I shrugged and bought eggs like usual, that’s just the way things went, too bad.

But if there’s one thing my job has taught me, it’s that everyone has a different attitude toward money. And to each their own.

W

hen Chaviva called and asked if we could meet up one evening, I was surprised. We saw each other all day, every day. What was this about?

“Something I wanted to talk to you about… not work related,” she said vaguely.

I shrugged. Why not? Chaviva was a good friend, I could enjoy an evening out, and I’ll be honest, my curiosity was piqued, too.

We met at a coffee place, made some small talk. Chaviva was playing with the fringe of her scarf while her coffee cooled on the table.

I nibbled at my carrot muffin and waited.

“So, it’s about the bar mitzvah, actually,” she said.

The bar mitzvah?

“It’s actually — I feel so bad to ask, but we’re a little, it’s been — a pressure. A lot of pressure. The money, I mean,” Chaviva said, and then, all at once, she blurted out the words. “I was wondering if maybe you and your husband could lend us some money? We’ll pay back monthly, just to help us get through the bar mitzvah, and Nissan, you know?”

I blinked. Wow, I hadn’t expected that.

“Uh, how much were you thinking?” I stammered. It wasn’t like we didn’t have money to spare. We lent money to family here and there, we were doing okay… it was just — Chaviva was a friend, and a fairly new one at that. It just felt weird, like this would dramatically change our relationship.

She named the amount.

Oh. I sat back. It wasn’t an insignificant amount of money… but on the other hand, we could afford it. My husband’s business was doing well, and I had a decent job, too.

It was just….

“I wouldn’t have asked you,” Chaviva said, all in a rush. “It’s just — we’re not so well-connected… and I don’t really have family I could ask. And you’re a good friend. You don’t have to say yes. I know it’s a big ask. If it doesn’t work for you, I understand completely.”

I could’ve just bowed out then and there, but I didn’t want to let her down. She’d really made herself vulnerable, and she was also a good friend to me. Maybe we could make it work?

“I’ll speak to my husband,” I said.

M

enachem wasn’t that enthusiastic at the request, but he didn’t actually refuse.

“We can do it,” he said. “I’d just rather not give such big loans when we hardly know the people….”

“But we do — I know her. They’re very yashrusdig. You know her husband from shul, no? And they have a whole repayment plan worked out. It would be fairly short term, and it would help them so much.”

Menachem sighed. “Yeah, I get that, it’s just — I was thinking about…” he shook his head. “Moish Levi approached me about that new community initiative to help struggling families. They want to do a big distribution before Yom Tov and he asked me to donate. I didn’t give him an answer yet, but I was thinking…. It would be really nice to give something nice toward this. Baruch Hashem we have the money now, we didn’t always, you know?” He shrugged. “But if we lend out so much money, I can’t use any of it for the donation.”

I could hear that. But the image of Chaviva’s pleading face was still stamped in my mind’s eye.

“It sounds like a really special tzedakah,” I said. “And maybe we can give to it next year? Or when the loan is repaid? I just feel like the Hertzes have no one else to ask, this is a chesed that only we can do. ”And they really need it,” I added earnestly, thinking about Chaviva. The recent crease in her forehead, the way she’d been a bit distracted recently, even a bit… down. And what about that phone call I’d overheard last week, something about a credit card bill that she’d quickly stopped talking about when I came into the room?

If we could do something to alleviate her strain, I really wanted to do it.

Menachem thought for a few minutes.

“I guess we can,” he said, somewhat reluctantly.

C

haviva’s husband ended up calling Menachem directly to figure out the technical details. It was better that way. We women wouldn’t have to be involved, and we could go back to being friends and coworkers.

Chaviva was so grateful, even though I tried to wave it off.

“You don’t know what a difference it makes to us. It’s really a huge help,” she told me.

“I’m happy we could help,” I said.

I made a conscious effort not to talk about the loan any more than that, though. I wanted our relationship to stay normal, as normal as possible. But I can’t deny that it was a little weird. There was something between us, an imbalance of sorts.

Hopefully we’d move past it soon. I didn’t want to lose the genuinely good relationship we’d always had just because she owed us money.

P

urim passed, Pesach prep was in the air, things were picking up speed on the home front and at the office, too. The money we’d raised with the Purim fundraiser needed to be distributed, there were calls coming in nonstop. It was real peak season on all fronts.

“Should I ask how the prep is going?” I asked Chaviva one day, as we were wrapping up after a six-hour marathon of phone calls-emails-deliveries.

“Ahh… it’s good,” she said. “You know, lots of shopping, finalizing the menu, the caterer… and the errands have been hard because my car’s been out of action….”

Oh, right. Her car was at the mechanic; I’d been giving her a ride home the past couple of days.

“I actually meant Pesach prep, but maybe I shouldn’t mention that.”

“Pesach?” Chaviva reddened a little. “We’re actually going to a program. You know, in the mountains….”

“Program?” I was taken aback. I know she’d gone last year but this year, with the bar mitzvah expenses and all? How was that working? “Oh — wow.”

The phone rang. Chaviva snatched it up like a life preserver. “Hello, Chasdei Batsheva, how can I help you?”

And I slowly saved the document I was working on, threw the dregs of my coffee into the trash can, and left, without offering Chaviva a ride.

S

he was going to a hotel program for Pesach.

She’d borrowed my money — money we’d worked hard for and saved, money my husband had been reluctant to lend out, and had wanted to use for other things — and then splurged on a Pesach experience that was, in my opinion, only for the wealthy.

That whole sob story she’d given me about struggling financially… the way I’d pushed Menachem to lend the money despite his reservations… me thinking I’d done something noble, saving their bar mitzvah, when really, she was blowing tens of thousands of dollars on a Pesach program….

Financial strain, ha. How many financially strained people were taking their families to luxury hotels for Pesach?

If I could tell Chaviva one thing, it would be: I put myself out to lend you money — and you’re spending it on luxuries I could never afford for myself.

Chaviva

I don’t know why it came as such a surprise to me that making a bar mitzvah cost so much money.

I guess because people talk about the cost of weddings so much, and a bar mitzvah is minor in comparison. Or maybe I just didn’t think? Because now that we’re doing it, the expenses just keep piling up, and every time I think we’re done, there’s more.

I mean, the basics are tefillin, hall, caterer, kiddush. But then there’s hat and suit for the bar mitzvah boy, and clothing for the rest of us. Getting my sheitel done — forget the new wig I’d been hoping for. And photographer, music, hostess packages….

“We’ll work it out,” Ashi reassured me. “We’ll cut down on our spending in other places. We won’t go overboard with the bar mitzvah. And Hashem will send us what we need.”

My husband’s bitachon made me envious.

Me, I just looked at the numbers and got stressed all over again.

WE

needed to pay the credit card bill.

I checked the bank accounts, maybe something had miraculously appeared in one of them that hadn’t been there this morning? But nope. And wait, the tuition payment was due, and hadn’t there been an electricity bill in the mail this morning?

I was supposed to be working — I’d taken on some freelance work in an attempt to cover the shortfall — but I kept flipping back to the spreadsheet, checking the numbers.

Ashi was warming up supper leftovers — he’d been working overtime, we barely saw each other these days.

“What are we going to do?” I asked him, giving up on work and showing him my screen.

“Maybe I’ll try fit in more hours of work?”

“What, and come back even later at night? You’re barely sleeping as it is. And a few more overtime hours isn’t going to bring in the kind of money we need right now.”

Ashi sighed. “So let’s take a loan for the bar mitzvah. Figure out how much we still need, borrow the lump sum, and pay it back in monthly installments for a year or two.”

It sounded so simple, so perfect. There was just one catch.

“Who are we borrowing fifteen thousand dollars from?”

Ashi went quiet.

I knew why. It was the reason we hadn’t done this in the first place. His family lived abroad, his parents were older, and his sisters weren’t wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. And my family wasn’t an option either.

His friends? They weren’t wealthy; solid middle class was more like it. Who that we knew would have several thousand dollars available to lend like that?

“Maybe…” Ashi said contemplatively. “I don’t know, my old friend Reich from yeshivah? I know he made it big in real estate a few years back, but we haven’t been in touch in years now. I don’t think I even have his number.”

That didn’t sound very promising, but the word real estate gave me the seed of an idea.

“Maybe Lani’s husband can help?”

I shouldn’t have said it out loud. Ashi’s expression went from bleak to hopeful in a moment. Now what?

“I don’t know if I can ask her,” I said, backtracking quickly. “We’re friends. I work with her every day. I don’t even know for sure what their financial situation is like. And I don’t want to make things awkward between us….”

“Maybe you could try?” Ashi asked.

I looked at him. He didn’t usually push me to do things that I wasn’t sure about; I guess this meant we really, really didn’t have many options.

I looked back at the spreadsheet, covered in bold red figures. Minus, minus, minus.

“I’ll ask her,” I said.

A

sking for favors is never comfortable; asking for such a big favor is even harder. But to her credit, Lani didn’t react awkwardly or look at me strangely or anything. She just asked a couple of questions and then said she would ask her husband.

I was relieved; we were good friends, and I didn’t want anything to take away from that. Besides, we worked together. The last thing I wanted was for things to turn awkward between us.

Thank goodness Lani was so classy.

“I asked her about the loan,” I told Ashi later. His relief was evident, and I quickly added, “She hasn’t said yes yet! But she’ll ask her husband.”

Ashi nodded quickly — “Yeah, I get that, but hopefully…” and then he cleared his throat. “In any case, Chav, we’re gonna need to cut down a little. On our spending, in general. I was having a look today and things are a bit… tighter than I thought. Even if we get that loan….”

“Cut back?” I sat down, still wearing my jacket. I was bone tired; it had been a long work day, a long evening at home, and then that whole meetup with Lani… and I was still planning to work a little tonight.

“Yeah. Like, on our spending….”

“Where, though?” We had this conversation around once a month. Especially now, coming up to the bar mitzvah. I didn’t have any new ideas, though. I already worked so hard to stretch the grocery budget, and most of what we spent on were genuine necessities. I shopped sales and hunted for bargains. We weren’t exactly living extravagantly.

“Pesach?” Ashi said, in a tone of voice that made it obvious that it had been on his mind all along and he was waiting for the right moment to bring it up.

Pesach?

“But we booked the cheaper program this year!” I blurted out. I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation. “We talked about this when we booked. You thought we wouldn’t be able to afford the one in Florida, so we chose this one, which is more local….”

Even though it was dingy compared to where we usually went. Even though we had a really nice chevreh at the Florida program, even though this one had kind of meh food and no day camp for the kids. At the time, I thought that was major cutting back. And it was. What was Ashi thinking?

“We paid the deposit. It’s nonrefundable,” I reminded him. “And we’re renting out our house for last days, remember?”

“I know. But even so, if we cancel now, we save a lot of money.”

I closed my eyes briefly and breathed. This was not happening.

“Ashi,” I said. “We’re not canceling. Think about the cost of making Yom Tov — I have no supplies, we’d be kitting out a full kitchen. Wine, meat, matzah, ingredients.” And eggs, ha, that should go on the list, too. “And we’ve paid the deposit. It’s a cheap program. And the rental money will cover something, too….”

And besides all that, I wasn’t making Pesach. I just couldn’t.

M

aybe it was a mind block, maybe it was psychological, but making Pesach — it was just too much for me. I’d never done it — save for a traumatic experience during Covid when the program canceled last minute and we’d cooked meals out of a single pot and pan with whatever groceries came in the deliveries.

I can’t remember exactly when it had started — maybe when Ashi’s parents weren’t able to host anymore? It had probably been during a pregnancy, I had very difficult ones and was barely able to fry an egg, let alone make Pesach. Ashi had found a lower-end program, we got some sort of discount, and the next year, overwhelmed with a colicky baby, a difficult job (I’d switched since then) and Ashi having hurt his arm and being a little out of action, we did it again. When Ashi got his promotion, we switched to a program his coworker recommended, and it was such a great experience, we kept going to that one. We made friends with the regulars, enjoyed the crowd — there were many young and growing families, like ours, which was nice. And it became a yearly thing that we didn’t even think about too much. Some people vacationed in the summer, we went away for Pesach. Believe me, that one week was worth more to me than a month in the mountains in August.

As programs go, it was midrange — not extravagant, but definitely nice. Which was why this year, we’d made the (difficult!) choice to cut back and go to the lower-end program again. Yes, it was still a big expense, more than making Pesach would be, but I didn’t make Pesach. Just the thought made me break out in a sweat.

And definitely not this year, right after making a bar mitzvah….

I was juggling so much. Work, extra work, the kids, the bar mitzvah. I needed to know we were going away for Pesach. It wasn’t a choice.

“We’ll cut other stuff,” I told Ashi. “Take the money we were saving toward furniture, or a new sheitel. I’ll cancel the cleaning lady for a few weeks. But Pesach is just not negotiable.”

W

hen Lani got back to me with a positive response, I was giddy with relief. Apparently, so was Ashi — his whole body actually seemed to relax when I told him, and it made me realize just what a pressure the money had become.

Ashi and Menachem, Lani’s husband, worked out the actual details, but what mattered was that there was money in the bank account now to tide us over, help us make the simchah with all the last-minute details it entailed.

I thanked Lani, of course, but we both didn’t talk about the loan much. She stopped asking me about the bar mitzvah plans, too, which was probably so I shouldn’t feel uncomfortable, but also felt like a shame. We were friends, it was hard to feel like our relationship had become a little transactional.

It will pass, I told myself.

T

he office was always a little crazy during Adar and Nissan. Our bar mitzvah was not the greatest timing.

“How’s the prep going?” Lani asked me, out of the blue, a week before the bar mitzvah.

“Oh — it’s, well, good, I guess,” I said. “You know, lots of shopping, finalizing the menu, the caterer….” Lots of expenses. Thank goodness for the loan.

Lani chuckled. “Sounds good. I actually meant Pesach prep, but I guess you’re not thinking about that yet.”

“Pesach?” I echoed. Had I mentioned the program to her yet? Didn’t sound like it. And that made sense, I never really liked to discuss it, it always sounded to me like I was flaunting something. Who in our circles went to a hotel every year? And yet it was hard to explain that there are vastly different types of “programs.” And that ours this year was located in a pretty simple hotel a couple hours’ drive away, not a 7-star luxury resort in the Maldives or something.

Lani was looking at me, a little confused, and I realized the silence was stretching too long. “We— we’re going to a program. We go every year….” I finished weakly. I wanted to say something else — defend, explain, describe — but Lani’s face was inscrutable.

And then the phone rang, I picked up, and Lani disappeared from the office without another word.

I

could guess why. I’d gone out with her, talked earnestly about our financial struggle and practically begged for a loan, and now we were going away to a Pesach program — technically a luxury.

If only I could explain it all, why it was so important to me, how I felt like I just couldn’t make Pesach, not for all the money in the world. How this was our family trip for the year, how we’d made it work for us. But Lani, she was superwoman personified, she could turn over her kitchen and cook up a storm in no time at all, and for a dozen guests, too.

“It’s just a matter of being organized,” she’d say airily. “We make it into a bigger deal than it is.”

But for me, it was a big deal. And going to the small program we’d reserved was worth every penny.

I

hoped things would blow over, but they didn’t.

It was already a few days later, and Lani — while not exactly cold — was not really herself. Our easy banter, the schmoozes we had between calls — they’d disintegrated, leaving in their place a kind of businesslike relationship, where we shared information and passed along messages, but Lani spent the rest of the time going about her work quietly.

I didn’t know what to do or say; bringing the hotel thing up would be so awkward.

But one thing was for sure, I regretted every penny we’d borrowed from her.

I’d rather the financial struggle than losing a friend over money.

If I could tell Lani one thing, it would be: For me, a Pesach program is not a luxury, it’s a necessity. 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1057)